


Shoot and Score

by houdini74



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M, Sexy Fluff, street hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22130629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houdini74/pseuds/houdini74
Summary: David has strong feelings about the street hockey game in front of his house and even stronger feelings about one of the players.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 79
Kudos: 276





	Shoot and Score

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you’re thinking about David Rose and a commercial about street hockey comes on TV.

They’re back again.

The band of hockey hooligans are in front of David’s house nearly every evening. Armed with their sticks and balls and the net that they set up in the middle of the street, their presence is an aggressive reminder that vehicles are only allowed to pass under sufferance, despite the fact that this is a public road designed for cars. It taunts him, this net with its red metal frame, paint chipped and metal exposed and the netting that was white and pristine in the distant past, but is now greyed and torn.

“Car.” Their call rings out as he pulls out of his parking spot and with military precision, they lift the net up and out of the street, leaving room for him to pass. He makes eye contact with one of the men as he drives by, scowling to let him know how he feels about grown men disrupting traffic by playing casual sports in the roadway. The man grins at him, the smile consuming his face and he winks, or tries to, both of his eyes fighting to dip closed as his smirk somehow grows even bigger.

“Hmpff.” He turns up Mariah Carey a bit louder as he drives past, wanting to soften the shouts and yells and the beating of the sticks against the rough pavement. It’s coarse and abrasive and he wants to rub the feel of it against his skin, to bathe in the sweat and the sound of men and women running and swearing with arms raised in the air as an impossibly awful orange rubber balls bounces between them. 

Later that evening, when he returns from Stevie’s, they’re gone. The net sits, askew and abandoned on the lawn of one of his neighbours. Don? Doug? Duane. Duane has a leaf blower and he likes to use it to clean his driveway. David appreciates his commitment to his aesthetic, even as the noise makes him want to throw Duane and his leaf blower into the nearest lake. David suspects that once autumn strikes, the leaf blower, along with his desire to drown his neighbour, will probably become a daily occurrence. 

The next evening, the net is back in the middle of the road. Instead of a crowd of players, there’s just the one man from yesterday. He’s shooting the ball over and over, retrieving it each time it hits the net and rebounds back to him. The ball moves on his stick as though there’s an invisible thread connecting them; he moves it back and forth before cocking the stick back, putting all of his weight behind a shot. Each shot is hard and sure and the ball makes a thwacking noise each time he hits it. It’s a horrid sound, it reverberates along the edge of David’s skin and he can’t take his eyes off of the man. 

The man is wearing a sports jersey over his jeans. It’s terrible, undoubtedly made of some awful polyester blend. David wants to ruck it up over his hips as he undoes the button on his mid-range jeans and sinks to knees in front of him. He pictures the other man, arms draped along the back of the ugly hockey net, knuckles white as he grasps the bar, jeans undone, his hard cock exposed as David grasps him firmly before taking him into his mouth, the net scraping on the pavement as the movement of his hips makes it rock back and forth. 

He pulls out of his parking spot, expecting the man to move the net. Instead, the man leans on his stick in the middle of the street, watching him with mocking eyes as David glides the car to a stop beside him. David stares at him belligerently for a long moment before he begrudgingly rolls down the window for a conversation.

“You’re blocking the street.”

“Yeah, I know.” As he expected, the man is teasing him, his eyes sparking with laughter. He flips his baseball cap backwards so he can lean into the open car window. David hates it. Hates the little puff of hair that peeks out from the hole in the front, hates how the hat cuts across the man’s forehead. The man crosses his arms on the edge of the car window. “What time are you coming home, handsome?”

He rolls his eyes at the terrible pet name, but a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He turns his head just enough to meet the other man’s eyes, the heat in them takes his voice away. “Eight?” Without his meaning to, it’s become a question. If he asks, David will come earlier. If he asks, David will turn the car around and stay home. 

“Mmm.” A rough hand cups the back of his neck and the man kisses him. It’s soft and sweet, an abrupt contrast to the strength of the fingers at the back of his head. “Tell Alexis I said hi.”

With a final rub of his thumb on the sensitive spot behind David’s ear, Patrick stands up and drags the net out of the street, his smirk is the last thing David sees as he turns the corner away from his husband and their new house, on his way to meet his sister for dinner.


End file.
